


Red

by ofaclassicalmind



Series: Colors [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But written before Season 8 Episode 5 aired, F/M, Fix-It, In which the author finally stops contemplating the term 'bittersweet' for an ending, Spoilers for Season 8 Episode 4, still recovering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 09:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofaclassicalmind/pseuds/ofaclassicalmind
Summary: The final installment in the 'Colors' series, inspired by the events of Season 8 Episode 4.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we have it! Hope you enjoy, and that tomorrow night doesn't destroy us all. 
> 
> (This is from Catelyn's POV. If you haven't, take twenty minutes and read the first two fics in the series. It will be worth it, I promise!)

Her earliest memory is the night she found him in his chamber when she couldn’t sleep, his shoulders shuddering as he knelt before the open blanket chest at the foot of his bed. Looking back, she must have only been four or five years old.

Catelyn recalls the soft sound of his sobs, and the way he spoke to someone that wasn’t there.

_“Papa?”_

_He rubs his red eyes free of tears and bravely tries to smile at her as her quiet feet pad the short distance to him. She wraps her arms around his neck as he carefully places the sword, still in its belt, on the stones beside them, moving to sit on the floor so she can crawl into his lap._

_“Why are you sad?” she asks, reaching up and touching his face_.

_He grimaces, trying not to cry in front of her. She knows this, and frowns as she wipes his tears away with her fingers._

_“Papa...”_

_His green eyes finally meet hers, no pretense remaining between them._

_“I miss her,” he whispers brokenly._

_“Mama...?”_

_Closing his eyes, more tears fall down his cheeks, and he nods._

_“I loved her so much, little moon,” he almost sobs, burying his face in her hair._

_She remembers clutching her father tighter as he soundlessly wept, her gaze falling to the sword he’d been holding as tales he had told her of her mother, a knight and a lady, dance through her mind. Suddenly, she has an idea._

_“Papa,” she says, pulling back to look at him, “will you teach me how to fight?”_

_The wondrous smile she can still picture so vividly spreading across his face at her remark is the reason she will always tolerate more parties than she can count, and the never-ending feasts when they visit Winterfell; she so desperately wants him to be proud of her, even now._

_He nods in answer, his face lighting up the room as his tears dry, and they proceed to talk for what feels like hours, her giggles and his laughter filling the chamber. When it’s well past even_ his _bedtime, he reaches down to grab the sword and Lannister red belt, then looks at her, drawing the blade from its sheath with difficulty, his only hand adjusting its grip on the lion’s head hilt._

_“Here,” he says, holding it out to her. He seems so confident she can hold it, even though it’s longer than she is tall._

_“Papa, I can’t—”_

_“Of course you can.”_

_Kneeling beside her, he uses his stump to bring her hands to rest on around his left as it clutches the pommel, and she grins as he gently swings it from side to side, her gasps of awe making him chuckle as the blade catches the light of the fire._

_“Never let anyone tell you who you are, or what you can do,” he instructs her. “Promise me, little moon.”_

That memory is what gets her through every misfortune, and every battle; the love she had felt then, and the love she was now capable of giving because of him.

* * *

When they argue, it’s brutal.

She knows just what to say to wound him, her honesty and her wit cutting him to the quick each time, and she’s instantly sorry not for what she says, but for how she says it.

Except once.

They are sparring as they always do every evening before dinner; her fourteenth nameday is rapidly approaching, but rather than stay on the island for the annual party, Cat wants to travel north, to Winterfell, to see a continent-wide tourney Lady Sansa has agreed to host to celebrate the end of another winter. Her father keeps refusing, giving her one weak excuse after another.

“We visited Lady Sansa only a few months ago,” he reminds her. “There will be other tourneys, Cat.”

“Not like this one,” she explains, grunting as his blow sings against her practice sword. “I’ve never seen King Jon wield a blade, and Ser Podrick—”

“You should focus on your footwork,” he says firmly, a tone of warning in his voice as he steps back to meet her strike.

Rather than continue to be ignored, she tosses her sword on the ground in frustration.

“Why aren’t we going?” she accuses. “You’re the great Ser Jaime Lannister. You should _want_ to compete. Mama would have!”

Her father simply stands there, his face flushing scarlet with a nameless emotion, and his silence infuriates her.

“What are you so afraid of?!” she demands.

She sees his knuckles turn white as his grip on the sword tightens, his shoulders slouching forward ever so slightly. Swallowing hard, he averts his eyes to the ground.

“I think we’re done for today,” he says evenly, though she can tell from the way he doesn’t meet her gaze that he’s upset as he slowly walks to the barrel, dropping his sword inside before walking out of the yard.  As she bends down to pick up her sword, she hears a pair of feet stop behind her, and a sigh with which she is well acquainted.

“You’re too hard on him, Cat.”

Annoyed that her grandfather is taking her father’s side in this, she whirls around, a retort poised on her lips—

“Any other time of year and it might be different. But now, so near to your nameday... It would be too much,” Selwyn elaborates, bracing his hands on her shoulders. “Her ghost haunts him in that place more than any other. Every melee, every feast...” Her grandfather’s hands travel to cup her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “... In every smile, he sees her. Believe me, dear, I know the feeling. ”

Catelyn has never felt more selfish in all her life.

That night, she brings her father a plate of lemon cakes once the servants have all gone to bed, and asks him to help her choose a fabric for the gown she’ll wear to her nameday party that year. They settle on a magnificent, crimson silk embroidered with gold thread, and soon after he starts to doze on the bed beside her, his fingers still grasping the sapphire blue fabric that had been a close second. As she lays down facing him, watching him sleep, she notices the swords that are now mounted and crossed over the shield bearing the Tarth sigil above his fireplace.

* * *

She chooses to live on Tarth for all three pregnancies, and when each child is born, her father holds them with awe.

“What will you name her?” he murmurs, staring down at his granddaughter’s beautiful blue eyes.

Cat glances at Brynden, who smiles through his red locks, encouraging her.

“Brienne.”

Her father’s breath catches in his throat as his eyes fly to meet her own, tears pooling beneath them.

“Is that all right?” she hears Brynden question, becoming hesitant when he sees his goodfather’s reaction.

A few tears fall, but they only emphasize the joyous smile that brightens his face as he nods at them both, looking once more at his granddaughter.

Though she knows her father would never pick favorites, she has to admit, she loves the way he dotes on her only daughter as she grows up.

* * *

His condition has worsened, the letter says, and while the children are already far mouthier than she was as she approached twenty, they remain reserved now, understanding what it means for her; for all of them. Brynden holds her close as she weeps that night, wishing she had more time.

* * *

He is a few years over ninety, and somehow, he still looks as though he could jump out of the bed, lift her up, and twirl her around the room as he had done so many times in her youth.

The children have all gone to bed, but she and Brynden remain by his side, her hands encompassing his left; a hand that has seen war, shown love, and enjoyed peace.

She quakes with the force of a sob, swallowing it with difficulty as it tries to break free, and he notices.

“Little moon,” he rasps, a smile on his face, “why are you sad?”

The tears fall freely now at the fading memory of that night so many years ago, and she is powerless to stop them as he squeezes her hand.

“ _I’m_ not sad,” he tells her, nonchalantly tilting his head to fix her with a smirk. “Do you know why?”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, and she shakes her head, unable to follow his train of thought.

“You’re going to see her again,” Brynden answers. “Lady Brienne.”

“ _Ser_ Brienne,” her father corrects him, a hint of tenderness in his voice as he blissfully closes his eyes, his breathing even and deep.

When he is finally at rest an hour later, she showers his hand with kisses, a smile of her own messily smearing across her damp face.

* * *

Her grandchildren play on the beach, and she supervises them as they swim in the sapphire blue water, their skin reddening from their hours in the sun.

She thinks back to her father, and her grandfather, who taught her what it meant to have true courage; to her mother, whose own love and strength had shaped the woman she had become, even from beyond the depths of the sea; and to her late husband, who had given her everything he could give and more.

The children growl at one another and scream, the sounds of their horseplay echoing along the sand, and she smiles as the tides of her lifetime wash over her, cleansing away her grief with love.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all, folks! If you enjoyed the series, be sure to leave kudos, comments, etc.. Writing these little diddies for you all has been a pleasure!


End file.
